


fever

by Anonymous



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Established Relationship, Forehead Touching, Future Fic, Kissing, M/M, Post-Canon, my friends actually gave me The Talk for this, not a legit sickfic, tendou is tendou, ushijima is a good roommate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 18:30:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9561503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “It’s not my fault, Iwa-chaaan,” he whines, mournful, and shifts to lay his head across Hajime’s thighs; Hajime feels his warmth even through the layer of fabrics. “Don't go around blaming people for getting sick.”“It’syouwe’re talking about here. And I know you.”Oikawa purses his lips again at this. He looks up at Hajime with eyes a bit hazy, reaches out a hand and taps him on the nose with a fingertip, ever teasing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to [Jazz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/indigostardust/pseuds/indigostardust) and [Dawn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eccentrick/profile) for their continuous support! (Seriously, I can't ever thank you guys enough T^T) Love you guys~ ♡
> 
> edit: title change(?) to match the prompt used.

“Oikawa’s been acting weird?”

“Yes,” Ushijima's says, gruff and staticky over the shitty connection. Come to think of it, Hajime has _never actually seen_ Ushijima with a cellphone. “He’s taken over the TV and couch, if not the entirety of the living room, and stayed up until 5 a.m. watching films with no regard to the volume—which very much disturbs my sleep and I believe the neighbors’, too.”

With a styrofoam cup tucked precariously into the crook of his elbow, Hajime raises a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. The threat of scalding tea might be worth trying to ease the incoming headache. “And I assume there's more.”

“He’s also tried to bake many times, all which ended in failure,” Ushijima further informs, all a matter-of-fact. “When I offered to help, he declined with some quite crude terms. Our kitchen has become a hazard and is in need of repair.”

It’s far from the last tick in the checklist, but it _is_ one of the key ones. That in mind, Hajime gives his favorite seat _just ahead_ a forlorn look, settles for a grunt in place of one well-deserved indignant scream, and takes a detour to the front door of this wonderful café instead.

The tinkle of its doorbell would usually signal a rush of cozy, welcoming draft; a shift in the surrounding lights to the gentlest of artificial glow—the _homey_ kind, still—doing _wonders_ to soothe eyes strained from staring too long at computer screens or reading the same passage in a research paper over and over. This time, though, he can only mourn the opportunity missed to even warm himself first, and once again he greets the biting winter and its flurries of snow with no pleasantries in return.

“How long has this been going on?” Hajime asks, pinning his phone between ear and shoulder. Both hands free, he adjusts his cup to a better grip and pries off its lid, letting the enticing steam wash some of the chill away and the drink cool a bit. Soon, he muses, he’s gonna need the caffeine.

“Three days,” says Ushijima, and were it not for six years of rivalry Hajime might’ve deemed it easier to thank the gods that Oikawa has _him_ of all people for a roommate. Stoic enough so as to not surrender to Oikawa's brand of frivolous tantrum, yet blunt (patient?) enough to not lose temper over such manner. Still, Hajime’s had first-hand experiences with it, and so he inwardly begrudges a small nod of approval at whatever bizarre sort of kinship this feels like.

“You’ve held up quite long.” He’s willing to admit as much, at least. The old roommate—Kuroo Tetsurou, was it? Shit, college seems _so long ago_ , now—lasted two and a half days. _Barely_.

(“He’s _mad_ ,” Kuroo had lamented, clutching Hajime’s shoulders with a kind of intensity found in tormented souls desperately grasping at a deity for some chance of redemption. “Exams start _tomorrow_ and he _won’t let me sleep_. Not a wink. Iwaizumi, I _had_ to call the pest control.”

“Then why the hell am I the one standing here at your doorstep because you almost busted my eardrum yelling, _It’s an_ _emergency!_ over the phone?”

“I meant _you_!” Kuroo wailed.)

Hajime sighs, not much in resignation—because, fuck, he _really_ _does_ want to see Oikawa, too—as just to see the fog of his breath dance a fleeting twirl. It dissipates just as quick, like the rest of this one day-off he’s been planning to enjoy; _a time for oneself_ , he’d dared say. At least he finally did sleep in that morning. “What’s he doing now?”

“I mentioned that I’d have a guest over later in the evening and would like to have a share of the living room, and he had locked himself in his room since.”

The tea, at least, tastes like one redeeming grace of the day. “Well, hope you won’t mind having another guest.”

* * *

Somewhere along the way, Hajime, admittedly, forgets about his tea. When he’s arrived at the designated apartment complex and come to stand in front of one unseemingly plain door, hand raised as he rings the bell in a visitor’s call, he realizes as much. Plastic bags newly acquired from the convenience store and pharmacy hang from his arms, no styrofoam cup anywhere in sight. He’s almost sure he didn't even get to finish it halfway.

(For all this, he blames one Oikawa Tooru.)

Beyond, the door opens to reveal a head of red, the deep color of blood, gravity-defying spikes defeating even those of Kindaichi’s. “A- _ah_ ,” Tendou tuts. “You didn't have to ring so _violently_ , Iwaizumi-kun.” He widens the gap, nonetheless, and retreats past the genkan to make way for Hajime.

Toeing off his shoes, arms still laden with his purchases, Hajime goes to guess, “So, you're Ushijima’s guest,” because for the likes of _Tendou Satori_ , the line between _guest_ and...well, the line blurs, to say the least.

“Yee- _ep_ ,” Tendou singsongs, walking down the hall towards the living room. Reminded by such similar ways in speech, and partly out of nowhere, Hajime thinks of how Oikawa and Tendou could’ve probably destroyed the world together if they weren't so inclined to sabotage the other first.

He pads after Tendou, who plops down onto the couch as Hajime looks about the room: stray volleyballs and dumbbells; a precarious pile of CDs, records of official matches passed and to-be-analyzed; small potted plants on the windowsill, bright and flourishing under Ushijima’s care (because Oikawa would be too distracted to keep even a cactus alive); releases of _Volleyball Monthly_ , some scattered (Oikawa) and some in a neat stack (Ushijima). The TV screams of some crime investigation show—courtesy of Tendou, most likely.

“Where's Ushijima?” Hajime asks, setting the bags on the low-end table. He unwinds his scarf and takes off his gloves, folding and tucking them inside his jacket.

“Trying to get the stove working after your boyfriend turned it into a bomb,” Tendou says, bending forward and staring at the screen with eyes too wide. He flits that eerie gaze to Hajime. “You don't check on him as often as I’d thought. You guys seemed _so_ inseparable during school it was _sickening_ , and I had to convince Wakatoshi to call you in to handle this.”

Hajime snorts. “We do, actually. Keep in contact.” Perhaps more than appropriate, considering his residency’s hellish schedule. “But we’re not students anymore, work’s been busy, and he should _at least_ learn a thing or two about taking care of himself because I can't be around as often.”

In response, Tendou just coos at some autopsy happening on screen.

Any lesser man might’ve shuddered at that, but after years of exposure to so many awful sci-fi flicks and Hanamaki’s horror games, Hajime just feels his eye twitch and little else. Supplies back in hand, he marches on farther into the apartment. Coming to a stop at a door whose worn frame he knows well, he gives the handle an experimental tug, finds it locked firmly, and resigns himself to a sigh. He rests his forehead on the wood, hears the _thud_ of it above police sirens blasting from the TV.

“Oikawa,” he growls out. “Open the door. Don’t make me use the damn key.”

Whatever noise behind it is sure to be lost in the clamor, no chance of reaching his ears. When he hears a stern, _“Tendou,”_ and volumes lowered, he thinks he may ought to give someone extra credit. (Just a wee bit.) With peace somewhat restored, Hajime knocks several times in warning; a muffled _thump_ like a body rolling out of bed and heavy footfalls from the other side tell him to wait, instead. At the click of a lock turned, yet door kept shut, he just treads on without much preamble and makes way for himself with a push of shoulder against wood, and nudges it all closed behind him.

The figure bumbling ahead is cloaked in a blanket from head to toe. Oikawa shuffles along, trail ends of the sheet tickling at his ankles, and Hajime thinks that he may as well have mastered the art of sulking around wrapped in a cocoon with how he doesn't trip at all.

Crashing onto the bed, more of a _flop_ than a landing, Oikawa seems to abandon all semblance of moving, curling up amid the disaster of blankets and pillows and stuffed animals.

(He still has Hajime’s Godzilla plush, that bastard.)

With bags laid at the foot of the bed, Hajime follows suit and sits down with little care, purposely jostling the bed’s occupant. He tugs at the blanket Oikawa's holding on to when he shows no sign of coming out.

“Tooru,” he says, switching to first-name basis, still a recent development. “What’ve you got yourself into this time.”

A head of brown fluff sticks out as Hajime pries the blanket off of him. Oikawa, sporting a bedhead extraordinaire in the rarest of occasions, turns to pout at him, nose red and cheeks a tad flushed.

“It’s not my fault, Iwa-chaaan,” he whines, mournful, and shifts to lay his head across Hajime’s thighs; Hajime feels his warmth even through the layer of fabrics. “Don't go around blaming people for getting sick.”

“It’s _you_ we’re talking about here. And I know you.”

Oikawa purses his lips again at this. (Dry, somewhat chapped—hasn't been drinking enough or using his balm, Hajime notes.) He looks up at Hajime with eyes a bit hazy, reaches out a hand and taps him on the nose with a fingertip, ever teasing. His grin is a bit crooked, if not bright as always to Hajime's world.

“Why the question, then? If you know me so well.”

He doesn't think about it. “Because I missed you. And I wanted to hear your voice, anyway.”

Things don't surprise Oikawa Tooru often, fluent in reading many kinds of people and situations as he is, ever the schemer. Over the years, Hajime's learned that such things don't include those closest to him, friends and families with whom he can let all guards down and focus on enjoying such time together to the fullest. Matsukawa and Hanamaki take advantage of this whenever they feel mischievous enough—which, of course, is all the time.

It seems Hajime is guilty of it, too; when the words dawn on Oikawa, his eyes widening and blush unrestrained in its bloom, Hajime feels the same sort spreading from a point in his chest. Warmth buzzing underneath, he settles to flick Oikawa on the forehead in covering up a sudden bout of embarrassment.

“ _Ow_!” Oikawa yelps, second-nature in making little things extravagant. He rubs at the ghost of Hajime’s touch, ruddy cheeks still apparent. “ _Terrible_ bedside manners, Iwa-chan,” he grumbles on. Instead of returning the favor, he nestles himself further into Hajime’s lap, face turned into his shirt, and breathes in like one would take the comforting scent of favorite books.

It’s as good retaliation as any because Hajime feels _it_ again, though this time much more of the _fond_ sort. No forehead to flick, he cards his fingers through Oikawa’s nest of hair, soft and silky even in all its glorious mess. “So what is it?”

“Sprained my ankle,” comes the confession. “It’s all healed up now,” Oikawa adds when the ministration halts, “but everyone kicked me out of practice for weeks and what was I supposed to do?”

“You sulked and watched too many volleyball matches and forgot to sleep.” Hajime sighs. “And it’s winter, too.”

Oikawa pushes himself up. “Are you doing that diagnosing thing?” He snickers, chin propped up and elbows digging into Hajime’s legs. “My, you’re already such a great doctor, Iwa-chan.”

“I got it right, then?”

Humming, Oikawa tilts his head to the side. “Who knows,” he says with a shrug. “Maybe it was the cold or the broken heater. Maybe it was Bokuto sneezing all over me that one time at practice.” He wrinkles his nose. “ _Gross_ , by the way.”

“But you did sulk and watch too many volleyball matches. And forgot to sleep.”

He gives up a smile. “You know me so well, Iwa-chan.”

Hajime rolls his eyes at the same truth declared. “You’ve been giving Ushijima a hard time, too, you know. Same as you were in college.”

“Oh, trust me, it’s been a _great_ pleasure.” Oikawa frowns. “He doesn't show much reaction, though. Brick-faced as always.”

“Give him some credit. He’s held up longer than Kuroo _or_ Hanamaki—though to be fair, those were during finals week,” Hajime muses. “Oh, and did you manage to bake any milk bread in your spree? Actual _edible_ ones, not lumps of coals.”

The offended look on Oikawa's face is comical on its own. “ _Rude_ ,” he huffs out. Plopping onto his back, he stretches like a pampered house cat, lazy yawn and all.

Hajime tugs at a stray cowlick. “Anyway,” he starts, “I got some Tylenol and fruits on the way here, and that sports drink you want to try is in stock again. Plus some other things I heard your coach recommend a while ago.

“And Moniwa’s is closed, so I bought the milk breads somewhere else. The place’s got Hanamaki's approval, though, so it can't be all that bad.”

He can already hear the many responses, things like o _h, I’ve been wanting try that one!_ or _coach is so brutal_ or _no milk bread will ever beat Moniwa’s_ ~

But silence—he doesn't expect.

At this, he peers at Oikawa’s face, sees the tightness in his jaw and a bottom lip nibbled. “You don't have to come all the way here, you know,” Oikawa goes to say, beating Hajime to it. “You should focus on your residency. I won't wilt away just from this. I’m not a flower you need to tend to all the time.”

Hush trails after that last note. Oikawa picks at the hem of his own shirt, frowning. Hajime feels his mouth open only for it to mash shut, and decides on just patting Oikawa on the head with a newfound fervor. In return, he gets a squawk and warmer hands reaching out to wrap around his wrist, a petulant glare shot his way.

Faced with all this, Hajime takes his turn. “Man, you’re _still_ as self-centered as ever,” he tells the usual lie. The truth, he soon follows, “Didn’t I say I missed you? What makes you think you need to be sick for me to visit you? In case you forgot, _we grew up together_ , and there were plenty of times I’d ignored you in more pressing matters.”

_But if you’d just call out to me, I’d always come running like hell._

Oikawa’s lips part, shut, a repetition of Hajime’s earlier struggle, and Hajime wonders if he’s said it all out loud. His silence trickles into a laugh, hoarse as it is from a possible sore throat, and he grins up at Hajime, the _sincere_ kind with crinkles around eyes half-shut painting genuine merry. Behind the back of a hand, he hides further loss of composure, and says, “You really are a hopeless romantic.”

Hajime scoffs at this and shakes his head at a memory resurfacing. “That date below a meteor shower was _your_ idea, remember?”

“Don’t twist things up, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa chides. “I know you loved it, too.”

“Hmm, I did,” Hajime admits, feeling too languid surrounded by this warmth to deny it. “Your face was ridiculous when you got too excited. Took some good pictures of it as well, so something did come out of it.”

Oikawa’s suddenly on him, breaths hot on his face. “Better than our first kiss?” he demands, knocking their foreheads together. Hands slide up Hajime’s sides, feeling up his shoulders before taking their perch on them, wrists locking together far behind his neck. “Is that all you can recall from that?”

“You’re sick,” Hajime says without much real force behind it. Oikawa climbs into his lap, settles down with knees on either side of him. “Get your germs off of me.”

“Hmm-mm.” Nuzzling the line of Hajime's collar, he hums onto the skin, leaving trails of moist patches and goosebumps in his wake. Hajime feels some involuntary twitch on his face. “Remember when we were kids? We always got sick within one week of each other. But we can forgo kissing, if you’re so worried.”

One of the reasons they haven't jumped each other is because _he_ is the one who's doing all the worrying, that idiot. “The hospital wouldn't want a sick staff spreading diseases.”

Teeth start to tease. “So they’d give you a break.”

Hajime scoffs. “You wish. It’s never that simple.”

“Then,” Oikawa breathes, eyes even more clouded, “we can go all out, hmm?”

It’s the only warning Hajime gets before Oikawa latches on, nipping and sucking like he’s some wanderer in a desert and Hajime is the only water for miles to come, his hands cupping Hajime's neck to steady him. In return, Hajime's own travel to map the expanse of Oikawa's back once more, the dip of its curve and the mirror image of dimples scattered, valleys and mountains blanketed in smooth skin that so thinly mask their strengths to the touch. Oikawa’s here and radiating warmth of things familiar, and _gods_ has Hajime missed him.

He tilts his head back. “Not too high,” he warns, taking a personal vow to make it so that Oikawa can't wear his jersey for _weeks_ without hearing his teammates snicker, if he dares to do otherwise.

Oikawa just purrs, moving on to nibble at his jaw in near-kisses drawn back every time. Hajime digs his fingers into Oikawa’s sides at that, lifting his shirt along as he goes farther up, checks at edges of ribs barely-there before grazing over two hardened buds and pinching them _just so_. Shiver shoots straight through Oikawa that leaves him shuddering, letting out a gasp he couldn't bite down in time, and Hajime smirks at how tables turned, because it is a privilege granted only to him and no one else.

“You…” Oikawa starts, lips glistened wet. Bumping their noses none too gently, he stares down at Hajime with eyes narrow and pupils dilated, his seat adding to that already unfair height.

His breath smells of vague mint, and Hajime's about to break the mood with something along the line of _have you even eaten yet?_ when Oikawa goes in for the strike, their lips meeting in glorious mess and sloppiness of days-offs languid; but a month of _I miss you_ ’s urges them on to press and push harder, breathe faster— _go faster_ —pull in and hold the other tighter as it can go.

Raising himself to his knees, Oikawa tips Hajime’s chin up so he can kiss him from above, always liking to be on the stratosphere and reaching ever higher. Eyes closed to the earth below, he hums, pleased, and takes Hajime for all he’s worth just as Hajime does him. The soft bed has his balance tipping and so Hajime helps steady him with hands on the waist. Sliding them down, thumbing at lines of hipbones on the way, he gives Oikawa's cheeks a firm squeeze and gladly swallows the moan he’s rewarded with.

“Is part of you being an asshole more than usual because you’re horny?” Hajime says when they part. He noses at Oikawa's neck, savoring his scent and the little pieces of time it brings about. _Smell is the greatest agent of memory_. He bites lightly, pulling at the skin and sucking a bruise onto it. When Oikawa bares his throat to Hajime in surrender of more spaces to mark, Hajime does just so. He’s not planning to play in any matches for the next couple of days, it seems.

Fingers tangled in Hajime's hair, Oikawa tugs him even closer. “Maybe,” he pants, hisses a little at one particular sharp bite. He grins, sharper and challenging. “ _A month_ , Hajime.”

Hajime grunts. “You’re slipping,” he mutters.

“ _Ha-ji-me_ ,” Oikawa singsongs in the face of such threat, chuckling. At the call, Hajime slips his hands under Oikawa's pants and gives his ass another squeeze, nails driving hard into the firm yet plush muscles, brushing over his cleft, cutting Oikawa off to hitched breaths and needy noises and, _shit_ —that may as well be the last straw. He pulls Oikawa into his lap so their chests press flush and foreheads graze and noses get in the way, and he gives and takes a kiss; he gives and takes and _gives_ and _takes_ , and Oikawa presents all of him for Hajime to embrace and perhaps never let go—

Through half-lidded eyes—tempted to close so he can feel every touch even more, yet kept open for sake of cataloguing every twist of Oikawa's expression—he sees Ushijima standing at the threshold and oh, _never_ has he experienced such abysmal drop in arousal.

“...Hajime?” Oikawa mumbles when Hajime jerks back from practically eating his mouth. Spotting the surprise on his face, following his line of sight, Oikawa turns to look over his shoulder and just groans at the intrusion.

“ _You_. _Again_.” He shifts to face Ushijima and maybe hide his almost bare ass from view; teammates and sharing locker rooms aside, Hajime also does not fancy anyone else seeing this side of Oikawa, pink flush across his face and chest, his eyes hazy with lust. “What did we agree on _knock first_ , Ushiwaka-chan?” Oikawa accuses, annoyance made known by a nickname uttered.

Ushijima, _dare him_ , just blinks at them. “My apologies—I did knock, but there was no reply and the door was not locked.” He doesn't make himself useful and leave. He looks at Hajime. “Would you like to stay for dinner? I’ve fixed the stove and so am able to cook a course. Tendou will be staying over as well.”

"I,” Hajime starts. Through the receding clouds, he thinks of the ever fickle time; in the face of hectic schedules and treasured day-offs and distances connected by train rides, he thinks of Tooru, and decides, “Sure. Yeah, I’ll be staying over.”

Oikawa sends him a look, something like worry furrowing his brows.

Nodding, Ushijima says, “I’ll be preparing our meals, then.” All straightforward and blunt, not a second glance at their compromising position, he leaves them alone together behind the _click_ of a door shut. Hajime can't quite decide whether to hate him or be grateful for it all.

Still on top of him and with back leaning on Hajime’s chest, Oikawa blows a raspberry, huffing, and crosses his arms. “I _swear_ , the nerve of him…”

“He reminds me of Kageyama, sometimes,” Hajime mentions, trying to shake off what feels like the weirdest turn of event he's had in awhile.

“What, you think Tobio-chan wouldn't scuttle away with tail between the legs if he ever walked in on us?”

“The blunt-but-no-ulterior-motive part, I mean. Kageyama's far more temperamental—kinda like _you_ , actually.”

He thinks Oikawa almost screeches. He whips his head around to stare at Hajime, indignant in the face. “We have no such thing in common!”

Rolling his eyes, Hajime just goes on to entertain him. “Sure,” he deadpans.

“You sure, though? About staying overnight?” Oikawa asks, picking at the collar of Hajime’s jacket, a habit for when something is bothering him but he’s not eager to disclose the matter. “What about work? You need to wake up early, and the trains aren’t in a fixed schedule because of all the snow.”

To this, Hajime just answers with, “ _One month_.” Leaning in, he kisses a worried forehead in place of all the things unsaid, things with no words within human grasp to justify them enough.

The lines ease out as eyes, normally wide, humble at the gesture, crinkles forming around the edges in a smile reaching. Carding through that bed of hair again, more in a playful effort to tousle, Hajime thinks he will never tire of committing Oikawa Tooru to memory.

At the prospect of tomorrow and whatever chaos it may carry, he thinks of things inevitable, anyway, because _a time for oneself_ becomes obsolete when there’s only ever been them for so long and _us_ in the days to come.

.

.

.

[

Bonus:

Oikawa and Tendou _cannot_ agree on which movie to watch, Ushijima’s opinions are swiftly ignored, and Hajime tries to maybe not regret this entire decision.

(He doesn't, either way.)

That night, though there is no TV taken over or films blasting on max volume, Hajime doubts that Ushijima or the neighbors get much peaceful sleep.

]

**Author's Note:**

> *screeches into the abyss* Do you guys know how embarrassing it was to write that make out scene??! 
> 
> What do you think? Did I do well?? Let me know ^^
> 
> [tumblr](http://astersandstuffs.tumblr.com/) // [reblog](http://astersandstuffs.tumblr.com/post/156755052434/haikyuu-if-youd-just-call-out-to-me)


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